


Would Suffice

by Paper0wl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester, The Devil's Daugher
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper0wl/pseuds/Paper0wl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Morningstar's daughter has spent millennia defying Heaven and Hell. She is also the only one who could take the Boy King off the throne of Hell. Caught between angels who want to kill her on sight and a king of Hell who occasionally considers her a rival isn't the best place to be, but she's survived this long and she has plans of her own. Plans no one in Heaven or Hell is going to see coming. <br/>Maybe not even her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Would Suffice

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a Robert Frost poem.
> 
> I've had this character in my head for a while and I guess I've read too many variations of demon!Winchester fic recently. This is the result.

> Some say the world will end in fire,  
>  Some say in ice. 

No one wanted to mess with the new king of Hell.

He’d killed Lilith while still human, and with Azazel’s demise a couple of years earlier, there were none powerful enough to make a claim on the throne.

Alistair’s death was still spoken of in whispers. The demon who had imprisoned his father on the rack, who had expressed displeasure for his inability to torture and break his brother as planned was himself tortured and broken before all of Hell before the king ruthlessly obliterated him.

There was only one being associated with Hell, aside from Lucifer locked tight in his cage, with the power and the ability to unseat the king. And she stepped foot into Hell for the first time in all her existence once it was known that the formerly human Sam Winchester had taken the throne.

Demons cringed and hissed and watched with fear and anticipation as she strode determinedly through the wastes and the corridors of the palace and the length of the ostentatious Throne Room to confront the new king.

Kyria Morningstar, only child of Lucifer, stood at the foot at the throne and studied the rugged giant seated there with cold, hard eyes.

The legend of Sam Winchester, Boy King of Hell, grew exponentially when she bowed.

> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
>  I hold with those who favor fire.

The archangel entered Hell’s palace with the stealth honed from centuries of hiding himself from his brothers. None knew he passed as he headed straight for his target. The black-haired head turned and grey eyes met his amber ones.

“You shouldn’t have come, Gabriel,” Kyria said quietly.

“You’re here,” he replied just as quietly. But where her voice held a measure of sorrow, his contained horror. The nephilim just sat on the great black and grey bed and watched the archangel shake his head. “They said you were here, but I didn’t believe them. You would never have come here. The only reason I came was to see for myself. I came to prove them wrong, but you’re here. Why are you here?”

“I had to.”

Gabriel’s horror swiftly morphed into cold fury. “He forced you?” It didn’t fit what he knew of the younger, taller Winchester, but then neither did storming Hell and taking over. “If he hurt you – “

But she shook her head in negation. “I believe I proved a long time ago that it is exceedingly difficult to force me to do anything I don’t want to do.”

“You wanted nothing to do with any of this!” Gabriel exclaimed in frustration. “You refuted all connection to Hell! And now you’re here. It can’t be a coincidence that you fell so soon after Winchester took the throne. What I want to know is _why_ , Kyria?”

She tilted her head and regarded him sadly. “You shouldn’t have come.”

There was an undercurrent to the repeated phrase that Gabriel couldn’t quite place. It made him wary. Wariness quickly spiraled into solid, not-quite-panicking worry when he realized he couldn’t fly away.

“I warded the palace against angels. Once they enter, they cannot leave without the permission of the king. You are the first to try.”

The horror was back and Gabriel stared at the nephilim with wide eyes. Trapped. She made the palace of Hell into a roach motel for angels. She always had thought of angels as pests. “If you set the wards, you can release them,” he tried.

Kyria shook her head again. “Not without his approval.”

“What happened to you?” he whispered in entreaty.

She just looked at him with sad eyes as the door opened without a knock to admit the king. “The wards,” he began before taking note of the room’s second occupant. Anger transformed Sam’s face, highlighting the blackened eyes. “Trickster!” he spat in recognition.

“Archangel,” the Morningstar’s daughter corrected softly. “Specifically Gabriel.” Her gaze flicked back to the angel. “I did try to warn you – you shouldn’t have come. I would gather you crossed him before and he isn’t pleased with you. Now you won’t leave.” She got to her feet and made for the door.

Sam caught her arm as she passed. Kyria met his furious eyes without hesitation. “He is the only member of my family that I like.” For a creature who thwarted Heaven and Hell for millennia, she was remarkably soft-spoken in regards to the scowling king of Hell. “Don’t hurt him too much please.”

> But if it had to perish twice,  
>  I think I know enough of hate

Sam continued as though binding and imprisoning an intruding archangel was commonplace. He waited until he had Kyria alone before confronting her.

She appeared neither surprised nor frightened when Sam closed the door behind him. There was no need to lock it – no demon would dare enter without his permission. They also cowered when he raged. Kyria just sat there and listened calmly. And he knew she listened because she repeated details back later that he had only told her in the middle of a deadly rant.

Her stoic acceptance infuriated him. He was the king of Hell! Yes, she might be the daughter of the devil, but she had shied away from that power until he came along. _He_ was the one in control! And yet there was a part of him, part of the darkness he took within him, that recognized her as an equal. Not a rival. Her first act was to bow before him, she submitted. Only to a degree, he recognized, however – he held the reins of power because she didn’t want them.

Kyria was the only creature who dared tell him “no.”

As much as he hated the obstacle, Sam did understand its importance and significance. She was here only because she wanted to be. Here. With him.

The knowledge turned him on in ways he couldn’t begin to describe.

So he had no response when she took advantage of a lull in his rant about the irritating Trickster/Archangel to note with faint surprise and amusement, “You’re jealous.”

His anger changed direction as she looked at him and laughed. “Seriously? You are unbelievable.” Her mood sobered quickly. “He’s my _uncle_.”

Sam was insecure and well-educated enough to know that such relationships didn’t necessarily mean the same thing to things that weren’t wholly human.

For the first time, he saw her patience with him run thin. “I told you in the beginning, I will not speak falsely to you. In an extended family where everyone dearly wants to kill me, I got along with Gabriel. Probably because he skipped out on Heaven ages ago and didn’t feel like blowing his cover by turning me in. I am his brother’s daughter – there isn’t enough chocolate in Pennsylvania to cause such a lapse of judgment as taking me to bed. Of all the things you could worry about, that isn’t one of them.”

He caught her chin in his hand and turned her head up to face him. His grip was strong and rough, but she didn’t fight it, just met his gaze unflinching. The only one who would dare to argue with him.

She _had_ sworn to speak only truth to him. But he had been well read Before, enough to know that a person could still mislead with half-truths.

He realized his thumb was caressing her cheek and stopped. “You are mine,” he told her, voice tight and icy. Then he pushed her onto the bed.

It wasn’t the first time he had done so. She never fought. Even when he wanted her to. Even when he wanted to dominate her and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the one with the power. Somehow it never turned out that way. Somehow he was always left with the feeling that he had power only because she allowed have to have any. That for all her seeming submission she was an unyielding pillar of strength and it was he that should be grateful she chose to offer him support.

Such knowledge did not stop him from growling, “You’re mine,” his mouth against her ear, his hands rough as they divested her of her clothing.

Such knowledge was not shaken by her breathy agreement, “Only yours.”

> To say that for destruction ice  
>  Is also great

Kyria was only allowed to visit Gabriel because Sam knew it caused the archangel pain.

Even with his Grace bound, the demons could do little to hurt him. Sometimes when Sam was bored, he would pick up a knife himself. It only happened rarely however, for Gabriel reminded the king of Before, of when he was still human. Gabriel took great delight in talking to Sam of such times. So Sam sent Kyria instead.

She didn’t use a knife. She didn’t need one. It caused him pain merely to see her here in Hell, to know she had become that which she fought so long and so hard against. Kyria had been the last, and the brightest, and the most stubborn of the nephilim. All of the others had been killed or else Fallen. Kyria alone had held out, had persevered. While it was true she had withdrawn following the death of her partner, Gabriel had never expected it to send her down the road into Hell.

He loved her like a daughter he would never have. Could never have, for the children of angels often led short and cursed lives and were reviled by Heaven. Knowing she defied the will of Heaven and Hell, that she refused to fit into molds cast upon her, had always made Gabriel feel a little less alone after he fled Heaven. And she was so much like Lucifer had been before his Fall, so much like the brother he had loved that it had hurt.

And now, as her father before her, she had fallen into the depths of Hell.

So although she never raised a hand to him, Kyria still hurt him more than knives ever could.

“Why bother coming if you aren’t going to talk to me?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me,” she retorted.

Gabriel glared at his niece. “You don’t bring me any candy.”

She smirked and said nothing. She didn’t bring candy because the king had a grudge against him and Kyria only ever did as the king commanded. She rarely even contested his commands, or his actions. It filled Gabriel with equal parts pain and rage when she came bruised. Never her face of course, but she did little to hide the darkened handprints that occasionally colored her arms. Pain that she let herself be harmed, rage that the arrogant twerp dared to harm her. It could only ever be Sam, for he was too possessive of her to allow any other to so much as touch her.

If Gabriel ever got free, he would smite the sonuvabitch. But the king would never approve the release of the archangel’s bonds, and any angel that approached would be caught in the same trap he had walked into. Not that another angel would come – Heaven must have learned its lesson when Gabriel failed to return. Thus Gabriel was condemned to remain in this desolate, lifeless place, as its poison slowly seeped into his Grace. He’d held out this long, but eventually he knew just staying here would choke his Grace.

He wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Do you enjoy seeing me brought down like this, Kyria?” he demanded harshly. “Seeing me powerless and cursed to wither down in this wretched place? What, because you’ve gone and Fallen, I must be condemned to a slower, more painful Fall?”

Her smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “You can be remarkably oblivious, you know?”

“About what?” Gabriel demanded.

“Angels – _all_ angels – are alarmingly short-sighted. You’ve been down here for a while and haven’t started choking on sulfur yet.”

“So? _Archangel_.” It would take him longer to feel the effects. Of course that meant it would also hurt more.

Kyria laughed. “That won’t help you much down here. A filter on the other hand . . .”

Gabriel snorted. “I’m sure a filter would be very nice, but I don’t see one, do you?”

She smirked again as she held out a hand.

The archangel’s eyes widened at the sight. “But – but – how? You’re here!”

Her good humor faded as Kyria dropped her eyes to the loops of lightning arcing around her fingers. The lightning that nephilim lost when they fell.

“You haven’t Fallen,” he whispered in amazement. Hope stirred within him. She wasn’t lost.

“I am the daughter of the devil,” she said softly, “I never needed to Fall to enter Hell.”

He shook his head in confusion. “Why are you here, then, if you haven’t Fallen?”

“I have to be here. I am the only one who can.”

“Can what?” Gabriel pressed. He could survive Hell indefinitely with Kyria around to filter the ambient power; she was the half human daughter of an archangel – as long as she didn’t Fall, her mere presence cleaned the power Gabriel drew upon. But this – this right here was the answer to the riddle that plagued him. After millennia of denying Hell, Kyria suddenly did an about face and marched straight in and Gabriel needed to know why.

The answer wasn’t anything he expected, but in hindsight it made so much sense.

“Save Sam Winchester from himself.”

> And would suffice.


	2. Some Say in Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went AU sometime in season 3.

Dean woke up with such a raging headache that it took him a few moments to realize he was tied to a chair. The last thing he remembered was leaving the bar, tired and drunk, when someone came at him from behind. Whoever (whatever) his attacker was, they were good, because he’d gone right down. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud, however.

He wasn’t on a hunt at the moment, didn’t know of anyone he might have pissed off enough recently to kidnap him. And fuck it all, because his assailant was _good_ and tied him in a way he wasn’t going to be getting out of anytime soon, especially since they’d _found and removed_ his knife. Both of the ones he should have been able to reach were gone.

And unless his sense of touch had gone completely to hell, there was a wide metal bracelet on his right wrist.

That and the symbols he could feel etched into the metal tipped the scale in favor of the attacker being non-human.

So when a young woman entered the room Dean wasn’t sure if she was bait, a minion, or a monster in disguise. She was casually dressed with a nondescript T-shirt, jeans and sandals, her black hair loosely braided, with flyaway strands framing her face. He waffled internally between minion and monster before choosing monster. Too casual to be a proper minion he decided.

Then he saw the darkness in her grey eyes and knew without a doubt that this woman couldn’t possibly be human. 

Cue the _I’m-so-fucked_ snark.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, lady, but this isn’t how you get a date.”

She laughed. Not a _you-are-an-insignificant-human-and-I-will-crush-you laugh_ , or a _your-defiance-amuses-me-in-its-futility_ laugh, but a fairly surprising _I-was-warned-about-you-but-I-still-can’t-believe-you-did-that_ laugh. “I’m sorry about the hitting you and tying you up thing, but you wouldn’t have come quietly and you would have tried to kill me.”

“Probably true,” Dean admitted. “What about the bracelet? You give gifts to everyone you kidnap?” 

She smirked. “No, that’s a gift from your brother.”

Dean went cold and tried to ignore the feeling that he’d been punched in the gut. “Christo!” 

Her smirk widened and her eyes didn’t change at all. “You think he’d send a demon? Please,” she scoffed. “Like he’d trust a demon for this.”

“Yeah?” Dean strove for casual, knowing full well that he fell short of the mark. Sammy. Fucking hell. “And what’s ‘this’? Finally coming to collect?” He’d made that crossroads deal because he couldn’t bear to lose his brother.

He’d lost Sam anyway.

And God (if he even existed, which Dean doubted – Sam was the one with the faith, not him – how’s that for fucking irony) only knew if it would have hurt less to know Sam was dead because he didn’t get there sooner instead of knowing that Sam had become a monster to try to save him.

It was Dean’s fault either way.

Emotions flitted across the not-demon, not human’s face faster than Dean could identify them. “You didn’t know? The first thing Sam did after taking the throne was burn your contract.”

Emotions roiled within him and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the confirmation that his brother had become the King of Hell or learning the first thing he had done upon assuming the position was to free Dean.

“Guess that explains why my expiration date came and went and I didn’t catch even a whiff of sulfur.” Still trying and failing for casual indifference. He’d always had a big red button where his brother was concerned. Sam crossing every line that ever existed and damning himself in the process in order to save Dean only made it that much worse.

Some days Dean wondered what might have happened if he’d been stronger and hadn’t gone to California when Dad went missing. He tortured himself with the maybes. Maybe Jessica would still be alive. Maybe Sam would have gone on to become a lawyer. Maybe Dad wouldn’t have gone to Hell for Dean. Maybe Sam wouldn’t have done something similar (but worse, much worse) instead of letting Dean take care of him like he always had. Even if he and Sam had never reconciled after Sam stormed off to college, surely that would have been better, right?

Dean only got through such thoughts by getting wasted.

It really sucked that he had such a high alcohol tolerance.

“The one demon foolish enough to complain about the dissolution of the contract was made an example of,” she informed him. “No one else had a problem after that.”

“Good for you.” He didn’t want to hear about what his brother was doing in Hell, he really, really didn’t. It hurt. And yet at the same time part of him needed to know, needed to know that in some horrible, twisted way, Sam was all right. Not that being King of Hell was in any well all right, but – it was _Sammy_.

“You still haven’t explained what ‘this’ is or why my brother decided to send me jewelry when I haven’t heard from him in months,” Dean pointed out, more than a little angry at her for coming along and ripping through the flimsy walls he’d built around himself. 

He hadn’t listened to his father. Dean didn’t know if it was right or not, but even knowing he had failed to save his brother, he still couldn’t bring himself to even _think_ about killing him. It was _Sammy_ , King of Hell or not, the little brother he’d always had to take care of. He’d failed his brother and he’d failed his father, too.

He didn’t need some not-demon flunky coming around to remind him of that fact, thank you very much.

“There’s your answer right there,” she said brightly.

“Huh?”

“’This’, as you called it, is _because_ you haven’t seen your brother in months. He wants to see you.”

“So he sends his pet kidnapper to get me ready? How considerate,” he snarked, trying to work some moisture back into his suddenly very dry mouth. See Sam run . . . Hell. 

There was a line in his head. On one side was Sam, on the other, the King of Hell. They wanted to erase his very carefully draw line. But he couldn’t deny the part of him, the big brother part, that desperately wanted to see his brother. No matter where Sam was or what he’d become.

“The bracelet’s protection,” she explained. 

“From _what?_ ”

“Demons of course. It’s not every day a living human visits Hell.”

“Um, what?” On the off chance he hadn’t misheard her, his mouth was dry again.

“I’m to bring you to your brother. In Hell.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.” Every nightmare he’d ever had of being ripped apart by hellhounds, or being tortured eternally by demons, or staring up at a cold, black-eyed version of his baby brother came back to beat him over the head.

“The _tutero_ bracelet prevents demons from touching you, physically or psychically. It also allows you to venture into Hell unharmed. Such are rare and highly valued. They can only be granted by authority of the king and once given may only be removed by the recipient, in this case you, or else rescinded, again, on the king’s authority.”

“Great, so the king can change his mind and take it back when I’m in Hell surrounded by demons?” Didn’t that just fill him with confidence.

“That would kill you. Sam doesn’t want you dead,” she rebuked.

“How exactly do I get back _out_ of Hell once you’ve dragged me in?” he pointed out harshly. He’d sort of made his peace with the idea of going to Hell for Sam, but that was for a crossroads deal that was apparently null and void these days. These days Sam Winchester ruled over the damned and the demons and Dean had no peace at all.

“Sam had already sworn before witnesses to allow your return Earth, unharmed and unhindered at an unspecified time this week.”

“Witnesses. Right. I should have seen the writing on the wall when I heard he was gonna be a lawyer.” Sam’s lackey snorted. “And a week? He can take that much time out of his busy schedule to chat with his weak human brother?”

Her eyes narrowed at that, but her only response was, “Time moves faster in Hell.”

“Faster?” he repeated in concern. “Is that week in Hell-time or Earth-time? And how long’s an Earth-week in Hell?”

“It can be up to two years, depending on where in Hell you are, but you’re not going deep. And yes, the week will be as measured on Earth calendars.” She seemed remarkably unconcerned by the time differential. Well. She was probably used to it.

“I’m gonna be in Hell for two years. No fucking way.”

“The palace,” she pointed out snidely, “not the racks. And your brother was quite insistent.”

And didn’t that turn his stomach. “Can I at least let someone know I’m not going to be in cell phone range for a few days?” He was going to Hell. Oh God. He was going to Hell to meet his brother.

“Who would you like to call?”

Dean hadn’t expected her to be so instantly obliging. It meant either this was on the level or he was royally screwed. With his history he wasn’t sure which. He had to think for a minute for someone he actually spoke with on a semi-regularly basis. It wasn’t a long list. It _really_ wasn’t a long list. He needed to get out more because there was only one person he could think to call. “Bobby.”

She titled her head to the side in thought. “Bobby Singer?” At Dean’s confirmation, she nodded. “That is acceptable. Can I assume his number is in your phone?”

He rocked in his chair. “Don’t I get my hands back?”

“No,” she said shortly. She pulled up his contacts, dialed Bobby, held the phone out on speaker and smirked when he glared at her.

“Hey, Bobby.” 

_“Dean. You in trouble?”_

“Depends. I’m going to Hell,” he said with a laugh.

_“Are you drunk?”_

Normally Dean would take offense at that, but he _had_ laughed slightly hysterically. He was going to Hell. He laughed again. “No. I was last night, but Sammy wants me to visit.”

 _“Where are you?”_ Now Bobby was worried.

“Tied to a chair. The hot chick holding the phone isn’t human.”

_“What is she?”_

“Kyria Morningstar,” the woman answered, which was just as well, since she hadn’t introduced herself.

_“Morningstar?!”_

“Yes. My father.”

“The devil’s real?” Dean blurted out.

“Unfortunately,” she replied blandly.

 _“What do you want with that boy?”_ Bobby demanded, no less intimidating for not actually being present.

“King of Hell wants to see his brother. Dean wanted to let you know he’ll be gone for a week.”

_“In Hell.”_

“You’ll get him back unharmed. On the King’s authority. But we have to go now. Goodbye.”

_“Wait! Dean – “_

She hung up, dropping the phone into a backpack she then slung over one shoulder. “I’m not sure how pleasant the trip will be. It might be best if you remain seated.”

“Should I keep my seat belt on until we’ve come to a full stop?” Dean retorted. “I mean, it’s not like there’s much else I can do as you still haven’t _untied_ me!”

She was smirking again. “It’s probably for the best.” She walked behind him and as he craned his neck to watch her, she placed her hands on his shoulders. 

That’s when the shadows gathered to cover them and the world shook violently as everything dissolved into darkness.

It probably _was_ just as well that he was still tied to the chair because otherwise he would have fallen when everything stopped moving suddenly. His vision slowly cleared to reveal room whose interior decoration has a slight obsession with the color red. Other than shades of black and gray, he didn’t think there was another color in sight.

Well, except for – 

“Trickster!” 

The short man grinned. “Dean-o. Good to see you. I don’t get many visitors down here.”

“You’re lucky you get any,” Kyria returned. “Before he put you on reception, it was basically just me. And he’s not really a Trickster,” she informed Dean. “He’s an archangel who went slumming on Earth to hide from Heaven and the only halfway decent member of my family. Meet Gabriel.”

“That’s an angel?”

“ _Arch_ angel,” Gabriel corrected smugly, before turning big eyes on Kyria. “Did you bring me anything?”

“You haven’t done anything to piss him off lately, so yes.” With a laugh, she tossed the angel a bag of M&Ms.

Gabriel caught the package gleefully. He ogled the colorful prize before remarking, “He’s in the Throne Room.” He looked up suddenly, something that Dean thought could almost be concern in his eyes. “He’s been a little – on edge – since you left.”

“I can imagine,” she said, all traces of mirth gone from her voice. Dean was stuck at a bad angle to catch her expression. Then it was back, “Care to help with this one?”

Gabriel’s grin was back with a vengeance. “Really?” he asked. 

“Good behavior is rewarded,” Kyria answered.

“With what?” Dean asked warily. The archangel’s tone reminded him a little too much of his when he’d gotten the Impala. All disbelief and delight. Dean didn’t like being the object of that tone.

Against all probability, the grin widened as Gabriel raised a hand. Dean flinched when he snapped his fingers, but all that happened was his bonds fell away.

Kyria grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Come on. We don’t want to keep him waiting.” She led him briskly through the halls and he was more than a little unnerved to keep seeing things moving out of the corner of his eye. Also, from what he could tell, the corridors had the same (highly original) colors, but with a much more S&M touch.

And then there was the Throne Room.

Or, more accurately, the Throne and its occupant.

As the king raised a hand for silence, Dean looked upon his brother for the first time in what felt like forever and his wisecracking sarcasm failed him.

“My lord,” Kyria murmured softly, bowing her head. In the eerie quiet of the auditorium, the sound carried. As did Sam’s footsteps as he strode towards them.

Dean was struck by the wrongness of it all. Even ignoring the blackness that consumed the entirety of Sam’s eyes, his clothes were too formal, his posture too straight. His brother had an almost perpetual slouch, to soften his gargantuan height and make him seem less of an imposing, frightening Sasquatch. This – this Sam used his full height as a weapon, one he wielded will intent and malice.

Sam stopped in from of them. Actually, to be more accurate, he stopped in front of Kyria, seeming to ignore Dean entirely. “I expected your return sooner.” His voice was stiff and clipped and ridged with ice and entirely un-Sam-like.

Dean wondered how he’d missed translating “your brother wants to see you” as “the king of Hell would like to torture you,” because this was just stabbing him in the heart and kicking him when he was down.

And he still couldn’t get his brain to get the smartass firing again.

“The errand took longer than I had anticipated,” she replied quietly, dipping her head again. 

When exactly had he missed the switch from the badass kidnapper of inebriated Hunters, who had hung up on Bobby, to this meek, submissive creature who looked ready to roll over and present her throat to the first thing that growled at her? How was this even the same woman?

Sam reached out, catching her chin and pulling her head up into a kiss. The kiss was as un-Sam-like as the voice because there was nothing subtle or chaste about it and the Sam he knew would never kiss a woman like that in public.

Well. It seemed her throat wasn’t the only thing she was rolling over to present to Sam.

And was Dean a bad person for mentally congratulating him for banging the hot chick? (He was in Hell, after all.) There was no way with a kiss like that he _wasn’t_ banging her. And Kyria was considerably more attractive than Ruby, that was sure. Dean’s mind did some kind of mental flinch to shy away from the memory of Ruby’s blood drained corpse in the wrecked house of the little girl whom Lilith had been possessing, the little girl he and Bobby had found nailed to a wall with her eyes burned away. 

It wasn’t so much the visuals he didn’t want to remember as what they represented – that was the night Dean had lost his brother.

As much as he wanted his brother back, this creature standing before him wasn’t Sammy.

Sam broke the kiss, leaving Kyria flushed and panting as the room emptied of demons. As soon as the door closed, the slouch was back and the black eyes receded, leaving behind the very image of Sam Winchester.

Then he smiled, and it contained too much darkness and nothing of Sammy.

 

Dean showed up on Bobby’s doorstep six days later, plastered out of his mind and refusing to talk about what had happened other than, “My brother’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter ended on a much darker note than I had intended. Hope you don't mind. (It was tagged as "dark" after all.)


	3. Favor Fire

It was plain dumb luck that Dean was there when they attacked.

Well, either that or Murphy, because he was such good friends with the Winchesters and all.

Regardless, Bobby didn’t have a clue how half a dozen demons got onto his property. They got in and slammed him against a stupid little car with a broken radiator hard enough to crack the glass. It was a crappy little Toyota anyway. But his head was bleeding and his leg hurt like hell and he was outnumbered. But he didn’t even know they _were_ demons until Dean came running in and the nearest rebounded in an orange flash after trying to hit the boy. _That_ got their attention real fast.

Dean noticed.

And being the self-sacrificing idjit that he was, decided the best thing to do was take off his anti-demon bracelet and clamp it around Bobby’s wrist instead.

A female demon grinned maniacally, grabbed Dean, and disappeared. The rest scattered after her. Leaving Bobby sprawled on his gravel lot wondering what the fuck just happened.

He’d barely staggered to the house when he got another unannounced visitor. The fact that she matched Dean’s inebriated descriptions of the King of Hell’s well-bred errand-girl didn’t exactly fill him with reassurance.

Years of practice and experience had him reaching for his shotgun. It was barely in his hands when white-blue lightning streaked sideways across the room to knock it out of his hands and him on his ass. Before Bobby could get his vision to clear, strong hands clamped onto his arm below the bracelet. She hissed and released him.

“Who took him?”

“Your people,” Bobby accused. “Black-eye bastards.”

She snarled something unintelligible in a language Bobby was surprised to recognize. “They’re not Sam’s.” Morningstar stalked over to grab his rotgut, kicking the gun away. She mixed the alcohol with water in a glass and then sliced her palm with a silver blade she pulled out of her sleeve. Squeezing her hand, she let some of her blood drip into the glass. Bobby watched in wary confusion as she threw the contents of the glass at his mirror. He was fairly certain his eyes went wide as the younger Winchester appeared in the reflection.

“Dean’s gone,” Morningstar said without preamble. “She has him.”

“How?” Sam demanded in a voice that would make tyrants tremble.

“He hasn’t changed. They went after Bobby and Dean gave him his _tutero_.”

Apparently becoming King of Hell had improved Sam’s knowledge of swearing because the flood of words that fell from his mouth was highly colorful and improbable. When the creative curses that rivaled his brother’s ran dry, Sam asked, “What do you need?”

“An audience.”

“Granted.”

As the image faded from the mirror, the shadows in the room moved, coalescing around Morningstar until she became a pillar of darkness. Then she was gone and the room was normal again. Bobby got to his feet and poured himself a drink.

Not ten minutes later, the shadows swarmed again, spilling her back into the house. The rock-salt round struck her in chest. Her eyes flashed white-blue as lightning leapt from her hand, sending him flying.

“ _Don’t_ do that,” she commanded, dropping down beside him and slapping a matching bracelet into the palm of his hand. “This one is yours, by order of the King.” Then she grabbed it back. “Which means when I find Dean, he won’t be able to remove it.”

And she was gone again.

***

Tracking the _tutero_ brought her to Bobby, not Dean. So she tracked Sam’s blood and ignored the muted resonance of the Campbell line and the odd, unfinished tone that gave her a headache. Strangely enough, there were two sites of deep resonance, though one was significantly stronger than the other. As interesting as another Winchester-blooded boy was, it was merely a curiosity. Recovering Dean had priority.

Deciding she gave up subtle when she walked into Hell, Kyria blasted down the door and the treacherous blackened creatures that got in her way. She never liked demons anyway. One she spared for the King to question, and only because he evaded her initial strike, giving her the chance to recognize him as one of Azazel’s former underlings.

The leader was with Dean, and upon Kyria’s arrival, stabbed downward viciously, leaving Kyria the choice of capturing her or trying to prevent his death. Cursing Meg, Kyria rushed to Dean. She cursed the vanished demon yet again when she realized the elder Winchester was bleeding out from multiple injuries.

“No, no, no, no, no, Dean! Stay with me!”

His expression was blank and barely conscious.

Kyria tried not to panic as she fumbled for her powers and applied pressure to the worst of the wounds. There were too many. Meg had _tortured_ him. What good was it to not have Fallen if she couldn’t save one human life?

“Grandfather, _please_ , I _am_ _trying_.”

Kyria gasped as her lightning slipped through her fingers to gather at Dean’s wounds and she knew instinctively that the electric force-fields were the only thing keeping the precious red from spilling away. Wasting no time, Kyria slid the second _tutero_ onto his wrist and transported him down into Hell. As soon as the shadows cleared, she screamed for Gabriel.

***

“It’s okay, kiddo, I got him. You did good.” A voice. Familiar. Misplaced.

“I didn’t – I was late. And, and Meg got him. It was _Meg._ Why can’t she leave well enough alone? I only ever wanted to be left alone!” Different voice. Familiar. Panicking.

Darkness closed up around him.

“You never cease to amaze me. Dean-o’s not going anywhere. You’re not supposed to be able to do things like that.” First voice. Amused. Amazed.

“I’m not supposed to be able to do a lot of things. Fuck the choir. The lot of them are useless and prejudiced and need to look closer at the rules they’re _supposed_ to be upholding.” Second voice. Defiant. Tired.

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” First voice again.

More darkness. Less confining.

“Why hasn’t he woken up yet?” New voice. Worried. He recognized the voice. Felt it nudge the darkness away and tried to reach for it.

“No idea,” replied the first voice. “Never paid much attention to human ailments. He’s a mule of a chucklehead, he’ll wake up when he’s good and ready.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” warned the third, new voice. The voice was wrong though. Too dark, too dangerous. Not the way it was supposed to sound.

“He talks about everyone like that,” soothed the second. “Even me, and I was his favorite. But I wouldn’t have been able to save Dean without his help.”

Dean. That was him. Wasn’t it?

“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo,” countered the first.

He thought he almost had it – whatever it was – but he slipped and the darkness caught him.

“They caught her,” the second voice offered.

“Good,” commented the familiar/unfamiliar voice. “I’ll deal with her later.”

The silence lasted long enough that he wondered if he’d slipped again. But then the second voice spoke again. “You need sleep.”

“I need my brother,” the third countered angrily, but angry because it knew the second was right and was too stubborn to admit it. He knew the tone well, could almost picture the face that accompanied it.

Silence again. Then, “I can’t leave him. It’s my fault he was hurt. I won’t leave him alone.”

“He won’t be alone,” the second replied softly, gently, and that was _wrong_ somehow for a reason he couldn’t remember. “Rest, Sam. You won’t do him any good  if you exhaust yourself. I’ll watch your brother.”

Brother. _Sam_.

There was pain there, and darkness. And he fell in when he tried to catch it.

***

Dean woke in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room and wondered who he’d picked up at the bar. Then he caught sight of a familiar form slumped in a nearby chair and tried to remember what the fuck they’d been hunting that knocked him down hard enough to worry his brother.

“Sammy?”

His head shot up so fast Dean thought he’d get whiplash. Emotions flittered across Sam’s face too fast for him to identify and Dean figured it must have been _bad_ for Sam to be that worried about him.

“Please tell me we at least ganked the sonuvabitch.” Let no one say Dean didn’t have his priorities in order. Now if he could only remember _what_ they’d been hunting.

“You don’t remember?” There was an odd quality to Sam’s voice.

Dean tried not to roll his eyes. “I’m _fine_ ,” he exclaimed. “I just hit my head or something and can’t remember the hunt. Really, I’m fine, I’ve had worse hangovers, I’m sure, just can’t remember them either.” He smirked. “Don’t worry, I still remember all the important things. Like the fact you have girly hair. Get a haircut, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam retorted automatically, then half-froze with a look of shock on his face. Damn. Dean must have been _really_ bad for Sam to freak about calling him names. He wasn’t asking, though. He was sure he’d remember eventually and there no reason to give Sam an _excuse_ to be all touchy-feely and emotional. Winchesters did _not_ do chick-flick crap.

“So, since I’m not dying anytime in the next hour, how about we get food?”

For a long moment, Sam just stared. Then he shook himself and bitchfaced. “I thought you _were_ dying, Dean.”

“Well, clearly, I’m not. And I’m hungry. I could go for some pie. Healing is a hungry business!”

Dean tried not to think about how badly he’d been hurt that Sam left to get grub with minimal protest. And then, because he was Dean, he got bored lying there about sixty seconds after Sam closed the door. Plus, he kind of had to pee.

The room turned out to be much nicer than their usual motels, except for the windows. Seriously. No windows? What was up with that? And Sam must have been _totally_ freaked about Dean being injured, because he left all their stuff in the car!

Which, admittedly, was probably just as well, because getting up to go the bathroom and then making his way back to the bed was just about all his battered body was capable of. Not that he was going to tell Sam that. Not a chance in Hell.

Sam came back with a bacon cheeseburger and a salad. Dean was not too tired to make rude comments about his brother’s girly eating habits.

Sam in turn pointed out how much fat and grease and cholesterol was in Dean’s diet.

Dean told him to shut up, bitch.

Sam called him a jerk and smirked.

And whenever he though Dean wasn’t looking, he wore a sickeningly happy smile that made Dean absolutely _convinced_ that Sam really _had_ thought he was dying. Yeah, well, at least there was no faith healer involved this time.

***

Dean woke in a dark room to the sound of Sam arguing with a woman.

“ – doing that! He wouldn’t be your brother anymore!”

“He _would_ be, don’t you see? If he remembers, he’ll hate me again.”

“And screwing with his head is the way to encourage brotherly love?”

“You saw the way he was last time! It’s better if he doesn’t remember!”

“Better for who? How long do you think he can stay down here? He’s hunted demons since he was _four_ , Sam. Expecting him to live down here, _lying and manipulating_ him so he doesn’t see what’s in front of his eyes – that’s just _asking_ for trouble. And Hell is well known for trouble.”

“I control Hell.”

“Really? You can’t stop one jumped-up demon from damn near killing your brother. How are you going to prevent every single one of them from not pulling the wool off his eyes?”

“They will obey me!”

“Tell that to Meg.”

A long, tense silence. Then, “Leave.”

“No.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I said _no_ , _Your Majesty_. Someone has to stand Dean-watch, and as angry as you are, you might as well just hang a sign ‘I spend all my days with demons.’ I thought you were going for subtle?” A snort. “Take a break, go blow off some steam or something. They _did_ catch Meg, after all.”

Another pause. “Fine.”

As angry footsteps disappeared down the hall, the woman slipped into Dean’s room.

“You’re not his pet, are you?”

Even in the shadows of the darkened room, he saw her freeze into a motionless pillar. They remained like that in the dark for what seemed like forever. When she finally moved – a shrug – it startled him. More so when she threw an arm out and a bolt of lightning shot out and separated into hovering balls of light that illuminated the room. She then sank into the armchair Sam had occupied.

“You remember then.”

“The important bits, yeah. Like you avoiding my question.”

She sighed. “The official title is Consort.”

“Meaning?”

She glared at him. “Meaning that where Hell is concerned, my power is second only to Sam’s.”

“Okay, so you’re Queen of Hell? Why couldn’t you just say so?”

She grimaced. “I’m not _Queen_ of Hell. I’m Consort to the King of Hell.”

“What’s the difference?” _If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck_ . . . “Either way, you’re second in command and sleeping with the King.”

Now she was scowling. “The _difference_ is that ‘Queen’ has power of its own, while ‘Consort’ relies on the power given by the King.”

“So it’s political, gotcha. Never cared much for politics. Always wondered how many of ‘em were demons.”

“Not as many as you’d think,” she replied, then stopped and sighed. “And yes, the difference is mostly political. But I insisted.”

Dean stared at her. “What sort of demon insists on _less_ power?” _Seriously. WTF?_

“What part of: I. Am. Not. A. Demon. Do you people have a problem with? The species label is ‘nephilim’ and I strongly resent being lumped in with demons just because I am the daughter of the devil.”

“Not _just_ because of that,” he pointed out snarkily with a significant glance around the room.

She looked away. “I have my reasons for being here; they are both personal and political. Much like why I am Consort. I never wanted to rule Hell. A queen has power; she doesn’t need a king and therefore is a rival. On the other hand, a consort has only as much power as the king allows; a consort has nothing to gain and everything to lose by betraying her king.”

_Oh._ “So it only makes a difference to Sam?”

“He needed to know there was someone he could rely on that wasn’t eyeing his back.”

“And are you?”

“I’m trying to keep him alive. He’s the only reason I’m here at all.”

Dean thought about it for a bit. “He’s still Sammy, isn’t he?”

She knew what he meant. “Some days more than others.”

“He’s still my brother.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s your doing isn’t it?”

Her smile was bitter. “I keep him in touch with his humanity. Gabriel helps sometimes.”

“Why?”

“Because his soul is too bright to let the machinations of angels snuff it out.”

“Angels?”

“Yeah. Your brother was always destined to get the short end of the stick. Bloodlines and grand destinies and ‘so it was written’ bullshit. If he hadn’t come here, he’d have been offered up to my father. You too, I think. Caught between Heaven and Hell, the earth would have burned.”

A pause. “Can you help him?”

A smirk. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”


	4. Perish Twice

Bobby was surrounded by piles and piles of books, most of which he’d already gone through before, when the shadows moved again. Not wanting to get hit with lightning again, he forcibly restrained himself from firing his shotgun, although he _did_ reach for it, if only out of reflex.

Sure enough, Morningstar stood in the center of his study. Again.

“I got a door, you know. You could use it.”

“And you’d let me in?” she countered.

“Eh,” he grunted. “Maybe. You gonna knock me down again?”

“That depends. You gonna shoot me again?”

He thought about it. “Not unless you give me a reason,” he decided. “What was with the lightning?”

She shrugged. It was deliberate and casual and Bobby didn’t forget for a second that she could probably kill him with a _look_ if she wanted. “It came with the heritage.”

“Huh. Cause I started researching children of angels and human back when Dean first met you and I heard some things.”

The preternatural stillness was more in line with what he expected. She barely breathed. Hell, maybe she didn’t need to. “What sort of things?” she said evenly. Mildly, even. His fingers itched for the shotgun as the hair on the back of his neck rose.

It was his turn to be deliberately casual. “I’ve read a few things that say you lose the power when you turn from God and essentially become a demon.”

She stared at him intently, not blinking, and it was only when she turned to study the wall that he realized he’d been holding his breath. He was getting too old for this shit.

“You have good sources,” she offered eventually, cutting through the tense silence that had fallen.

“Yeah, well, I need ‘em.” She hadn’t _confirmed_ his research, but she implied it wasn’t complete bullshit. She still had her lightning powers, and she wasn’t a demon, but she served the King of Hell. Bobby didn’t know enough about this sort of thing to understand the fine distinctions here. Life was much simpler when he just hunted things that hurt people like Karen, when angels were just pictures on a church wall, and when the King of Hell wasn’t a kid he babysat.

And because he had enough self-preservation instincts to not ask about that stuff, he went instead for the question he _actually_ wanted the answer to. “What happened to Dean?”

“He’s with his brother.”

Bobby released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “He’s alive.”

She nodded.

“Well that makes things easier,” said a new voice.

While Bobby jumped and went for his shotgun, Morningstar spun and drew the silvery blade from her sleeve again.

The balding suit-wearing man in the doorway frowned. “You’re not supposed to have that,” he scolded.

“I’m not supposed to do a lot of things,” Morningstar retorted stiffly.

“All easily corrected in this case. Thankfully,” the man added.

There was a sound like a flock of birds flew overhead and then there were three other men in his study. All three carried the same type of weapon as Morningstar and she seemed to know more than he did about what the fuck was going on _in his goddamned house_ because she was moving before any of the three could take a step to attack her.

The three were right behind her though. And while she knew what she was doing with her sword, so did they. And they outnumbered her three (four?) to one.

She was the devil’s daughter and the king of Hell’s right hand. She also was kinda Sam’s girlfriend and seemed to want to protect Dean as a result. She wasn’t human.

They weren’t human either and clearly didn’t get along with her.

There was a battle royale in his goddamn living room and he didn’t know which side he was supposed to root for and which he was supposed to shoot. Not that that would necessarily do anything but get him knocked on his ass again. He really wished he knew what the fuck was going on.

One of the three staggered back, a hilt sticking out of his gut, blue-white light spilling around the edges of the word.

By the time Bobby realized that hilt had been her sword, one of the others struck low and stabbed her upper leg.

Morningstar screamed.

The guy from the doorway caught her before she fell and held her up by simple expedient of a hand on her throat. Because the non-humans invading his house had to be super-strong too.

She punched him.

He retaliated by throwing her across the room. She slammed into the wall and a couple stacks of books collapsed on top her.

“Hey!” Bobby exclaimed. “I’m the only one allowed to beat on people in my house!”

The aging businessman looking guy turned an unimpressed look on him. “What makes you think your insignificant rules apply to me?”

“He’s Winchester’s father figure,” Morningstar bit out, sounding pained.

He didn’t know what it meant that the guy looked interested at that, but it couldn’t be good.

“And you’re an abomination,” the guy replied, arrogant and condescending, but somehow sounding like he was doing them a favor. He nodded at the trio and the wounded one disappeared with another flapping noise, leaving the other two who both looking as excited as if they were expecting a root canal.

“Then why haven’t you killed me yet?” Morningstar countered, pushing herself up into a sitting position, mostly by using the wall for support.

“Because as much as I think killing you would be a service, we need Winchester.”

“Which one?” she retorted.

“The only one worth dealing with.”

“Knowing your warped values, not Sam then.”

“He’s an abomination, too. A lesser abomination perhaps, but still a disgusting fiend.”

“Such kind words, Zachariah. You never change. Still as arrogant and self-righteous as ever.”

Zachariah responded by yanking the sword out of her leg and slamming it through her shoulder. She arched and screamed.

Having had enough, Bobby fired the shotgun. Zachariah barely flinched. There was a flutter of wings and then one of the other two, the one that looked like an accountant, not hired muscle, was right next to him and reaching for him.

***

Kyria watched Bobby drop through gritted teeth. It hurt to breathe. Fucking angels. Fucking Zachariah. Fucking _ow._

“Sam’s not gonna like that,” she noted, trying to draw even breaths through her nose.

The seraph turned back to shoot her a mocking glance. “And I care what an abomination wants? No. What I care about is the big picture and that doesn’t include the bastard king corrupting his brother. For all his . . . vices, Dean Winchester is still a servant of Heaven.”

She didn’t bother to contain her snort. “Right. And your plan is to trade me for Dean? Good luck with that. What’s the expression? We don’t negotiate with terrorists? Even if Sam makes the trade, you’re not gonna get Dean. He’ll never turn against his brother.”

Zachariah gave her a tight smile as he drew the angel blade partway out of her shoulder and slammed it back in.

She choked on her scream and tried to remember how to breathe as dark spots swam across her eyes. Her hands came up to cradle the wound but one of the angels struck, catching her wrists and binding them with restraints that burned cold. A pained noise bubbled up the back of her throat and she drew her uninjured leg to her chest.

“Deliver the message, Uriel,” Zachariah ordered.

The angel in question made a murmur of acquiescence and left in a flutter of wings.

“Guard her,” the seraph ordered the other angel. “If she tries to escape – do whatever you deem necessary to stop her. Don’t kill her though. As much as I’d like to, we do need her to get Winchester back.”

“And Robert Singer?” rumbled the second angel.

“He’s not a threat,” Zachariah dismissed easily. “And if he is John’s replacement in the boy’s life, he might have a use. Try not to injure him.”

“It will be done.”

“Good,” Zachariah said, before vanishing in his own flutter of wings.

“Don’t try to escape,” the remaining angel rumbled.

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Kyria retorted weakly.

“Good,” the rough voice replied.

***

Bobby woke up after a few hours. He wasn’t happy about being prisoner in his own home by an angel.

“Are they all like this?” he demanded in annoyance.

Kyria’s expression was grim, despite efforts to the contrary. “Pretty much, yeah. Aside from Gabriel, I really only know the ones that tried to kill me. Gabriel just likes to piss everyone off.”

“Gabriel is dead,” the remaining angel said with a frown. It was about all the emotion he was capable of showing.

“No more than me,” Kyria retorted, less flippantly than she would have liked. Swords wounds tended to do that. “He heard the rumors about me and went to check them out. Unfortunately Sam had a grudge from the Groundhog Day stunt and refused to let him go.”

“Sam’s got an _archangel_ captive downstairs?” Bobby said in disbelief.

“Yeah. Pretty sure _someone_ upstairs knew about it. Gabriel seemed to think they knew, anyway.”

“I was not told,” the angel replied.

“And they tell you everything?” she countered. “I know a foot soldier when I’m held captive by one. Foot soldiers only know what the generals feel like sharing.”

The angel gave her a cold stare and refused to say anymore.

She raised an eyebrow at him later that night when Gabriel arrived with chains on his wrists and a hand on Dean’s shoulder to trade the brother for the consort. Zachariah reappeared, looking like he swallowed a lemon. Gabriel crafted a deliberate air of irreverence and unconcern and munched lots of sweets very noisily. The guard angel frowned in confusion.

Dean looked pretty pissed about the whole thing, glaring freely at the interloping angels, but was surprisingly silent during the exchange. Clearly someone had instructed him.

“Is that a serious question?” the archangel asked as soon as he took Kyria back to Hell. “You think Sam would even _consider_ letting angels get their grubby hands on his brother without giving Dean a shiny new list of the strongest angel wards I know to drive them away at the first opportunity?”

“I kinda figured,” she admitted, wincing as she accidentally put weight on her injured leg.

The problem with angel blades was that even angels had to heal human-slow from the injuries received. At least there wasn’t an angel with a sword making it worse. Not that it made her any less irritable. Wounded in Hell was like spilling blood into shark-infested water. Even wounded, however, Kyria was more than a match for whatever over-confident demon tried to pick on her. And any she missed, Sam took care of. The King of Hell was _furious_ over the attack on his Consort, but could not very well attack Heaven.

“Ignore them for now,” Gabriel advised. “They’ve got their panties in a twist because without Lilith, they can’t let Lucifer out to have Michael kill him. As King, you’re out of their hands, but they’re afraid to lose you _and_ your mutton-headed brother. He’s the untainted one, after all.”

“Please don’t hurt Gabriel when he’s indignant on my behalf and hiding it behind ill-advised snark,” Kyria said when her uncle’s words predictably pissed off an already angry Sam. “It’s Zachariah who is the problem here.”

Sam snarled, but didn’t attack the offending archangel. It was a near thing, though. Any demon unfortunate enough to cross the king’s path didn’t live to learn from the mistake.

Gabriel meanwhile helped Kyria pass her recovery time by discussing all the possible, terrible things he could do to Zachariah.

“They traded you for Dean and not me? I’m offended. I’m much more important. I’m an _archangel_ , after all. Dean’s just the unused vessel of my big brother. I should make Zach live through high school as the kid picked last in gym. See how _he_ likes it.”

“He didn’t even tell poor little stoic Castiel I was alive? Oh, come on! I wasn’t exactly circumspect when I turned up to come check on you. Can’t I turn Zach into a statue or some invisible, intangible thing? Then he’d get to see everything but no one would talk to _him_.”

“Maybe I’m being too generous. Kali always had a thing for the death of a thousand cuts. I’d even let you help.”

There was some good news though. Gabriel couldn’t get onto Bobby’s property, or find the Impala.

“Means they warded properly. I wasn’t sure if they would or not. Some people get squeamish about painting with human blood. Zach’s gonna have a hard time getting his hands on the mutton-head. Too bad. If you ever see the asshole again, Kyria, be sure to stab him first, will you?”

Kyria snorted. “Like I would hesitate. Same goes for you. I’d prefer if you save something for me, but I just want him _dead_.”

“Deal,” Gabriel replied with a suggestive grin.

“I’m not kissing you.”

“Damn. You are no fun at all.”

Kyria rolled her eyes. “And you like to live dangerously. Flirting with the Consort could get the king on your case. I’d say you could get off for good behavior, but you don’t have any.”

“Humph. Just see if I come to rescue you again anytime soon.”

“Hopefully I won’t need you to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I wrote this that I no longer know where I was going with it. But _Some Say in Ice_ was such a dark place to leave it that I dusted the other two pieces off. No idea where to go from here. Sorry.


End file.
